


Kill Me Slowly

by TerokNor



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: I've been meaning to write more slightly psychotic elliott, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 18:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerokNor/pseuds/TerokNor
Summary: Mirage seeks Bloodhound out, because he's smitten.Who wouldn't be smitten by someone who tries to drown them?AKA, imagine this is what happens every time you have a teammate who wanders off from the rest of the team.





	Kill Me Slowly

He stumbles on them quite by accident. 

Elliott Witt is a simple man, with simple needs.

One shot gun, one machine gun, a body shield, and he's ready to go. 

But his team takes a while to loot, and he grows bored, and goes off on his own. 

He hears gunfire, sees sniper shots rippling through the air, hears screaming. 

And he's attracted to the commotion, loves to be a part of the action. 

That's when he sees them. 

A person wearing a gas mask. 

Viciously stabbing a man through the neck, blood spurting almost comically from his throat, then kicking him face down into the waters of Cascades. 

The water rippling red. 

His eyes are attracted to the color, following its path down his way, rushing over his ankles. 

He stares at them, afraid and exhilarated at the same time. 

The heady rush of excitement is exactly what he'd been craving from the Apex Games, and he relishes in the feeling.

And doesn't react when the masked person charges at him, seizing him around the middle and knocking him down into the water. 

Their weight crushes him into the rushing river, and he gasps, splutters, as water flows over his head. 

He blinks, struggling underneath the rapid stream, looking up at the distorted masked face of the hunter above him. 

He cannot see their eyes, does not know if he is looking at the eyes of a vicious killer or an apathetic one, someone who enjoys slaughter, or does it out of necessity. 

In either case, when the person inexplicably lets him go, standing up, and walking away, he sits up in a daze, hair sopping wet.

And wonders if he's in love. 

Maybe you'd think it was strange to fall in love with someone who'd try to drown you, but he doesn't think it's odd at all.

His team isn't looking for him.

They've decided that he isn't useful, that if he's going to wander off on his own, then they will simply do their "own thing" too, but that's alright. He's not here to win anyway.

He's here because he is seeking something subhuman, a primal desire buried deep in the human psyche, where the animalistic  side still lurks. 

He is here for resolution, for absolution, to soothe an ache in his belly, scratch an unbearable itch. 

And the masked hunter, Bloodhound, he learns, is more than capable of offering him all of these things. 

He witnesses Bloodhound waiting with endless patience at a gorge just before the edge of the ring, calmly and efficiently blowing through head after head of unfortunate competitors as they tried to escape the ring. 

He nearly faints with euphoria when he witnesses Bloodhound rush into a building after an injured team mate, spraying their machine gun into two enemy combatants, before executing the third with a thrown dagger to the heart. 

Is pretty sure he knows what love is when he sees Bloodhound kneeling to revive their team mate, reassuringly squeezing their shoulder, their hands soaked with blood. 

After they're gone, he goes inside the room, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt as he stares at the bloody inner walls of the building, the red stained cracked glass windows. 

He follows them, and watches.

Wonders what they're thinking, if they're as intoxicated by the struggle as he is.

If they ponder life and death and everything in between just as he does.

He follows them until there are only five squads left, and his own teammates are long dead. 

And when he sees Bloodhound wander off from the group, he is thrilled. 

Is dying to know what they are going to do on their own. 

To his surprise, they wander off into Bunker. 

And he follows them in.

Only for a knife to embed itself just half an inch away from his ear.

"Why have you been following me?" Bloodhound asks softly.

He feels a shiver going down his spine at the sound of their voice, addressing him.

"Because I like to watch you," he admits.

"And why is that?"

"You are glorious," he tells them. "And I am not here to win."

"What are you here for?" Bloodhound asks, a ripple of amusement in their words. 

Elliott, with a knife beside his ear, almost swoons. 

"I'm here looking to feel alive," he says. "These people are dull, their lives are so meaningless, and they think that winning some prize and gaining some fame will make them interesting. But it won't. And they deserve to die, if that's all they are here for. Human lives are beautiful, at the beginning, and at the end. Death is an art, and those who do not appreciate it as such are not true artists. I followed you because I'm dedicated to the arts." 

He giggles at himself, rather amused by how ridiculous he sounds, yet totally believing in his own words at the same time. 

To his amazement, Bloodhound cocks their head at him, as though intrigued. 

"You are a strange man," they say after a while.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asks, his voice as calm as though he were asking if Bloodhound was going to be in town a while.

"No. You will die, as all do, by the end." 

"Promise that if I make it to the top three, you'll be the one to kill me?" 

Bloodhound stares at them wordlessly for a few minutes.

Then, they grab the tip of their hat, nodding at him. 

"If that is what you wish, I will try." 

He grins. 

"It's a date." 

Elliott, simply by hiding and third partying squads that are weakened and depleted of resources, makes it to top three.

And then, he makes it to top two as Bloodhound's squad finishes off the second to last team. 

One of Bloodhound's team mates is dead.

The other critically injured.

It's just him and his crush. 

He's as nervous as a schoolboy, but he brightens when he sees Bloodhound through the scope of the sniper rifle he'd picked off the corpse of his last victim. 

He lines his sights up with Bloodhound's head, but doesn't pull the trigger. 

And they do. 

The next thing he knows, he's waking up, one eye less, to the smiling face of a nurse, who tells him that he's done so well that Apex's sponsors were willing to give him another shot next year.

And he sighs, thinking he'd been that close to dying at the hands of the most fascinating and beautiful beings of the Apex ring. 

For days, he mopes, rubbing at the hollow space where his right eye used to be, fingering at the dent in the back of his head. 

Then, his head buzzing, he decides to go to the bar across the street. 

in it, he sees a familiar mask. 

Bloodhound is waiting for him at a booth. 

Waves him over as they see him.

His stomach jumping with nerves, he sits across from them. 

"You almost killed me," he starts the conversation with.

"Yes." 

"You promised me you'd kill me."

"I did my best." 

"You owe me another date, I think." 

"Does Saturday work?" Bloodhound asks. 

"Sure. But you know, now that we're not on the clock, I was wondering if we could take it a little slower," Elliott says, smiling coyly at his would-be murderer. "I'm all for quickies, but sometimes  a man likes to take it slow."

"Not many men in our profession like to take things slow, Mister...?"

"Call me Elliott." 

"Elliott." 

"I'm not like other men in our profession." 

He siddles over to Bloodhound's side of the table. 

The masked hunter turns in their seat to look at him. 

"No, you certainly are not," they say with a little chuckle. 

He grins. 

The next night, Bloodhound pins him against the wall outside of the bar, their hands on his throat. 

And he is breathless, stars in his eyes at the heady feeling of being choked, deprived of life giving air, by such a gorgeous wild animal, a species he recognizes as his own. 

They relent slowly, giving him back his life, graciously, letting him breathe again, stroking his throat with their gloved fingers, thumb brushing over his quivering pulse, pounding beneath the skin. 

He breathes in, long and deep, and says softly, hoarsely: "Kill me slowly." 

And he's breathless again, when Bloodhound responds, "My place or yours?" 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this either.


End file.
